Angels Without Wings
by PlanetOfTheWeepingWillow
Summary: Alfred is sentenced to execution for heinous crimes that no one believes he committed. But before he's fried, he meets several interesting inmates, ranging from a psychotic Brit to a soft-spoken German who could easily break him with his small finger. AU
1. Chapter 1

On Christmas night the new inmate arrived. He kept his blond hair bowed, but the guards knew already what kind of man he'd be: blue-eyed, seemingly innocent, and likely in for some petty crime. That is what their first impulse was, of course. But this man was up to be executed in the lap of the old electric chair, so something must be wrong with him.

The guards who did not have to perform the regular inspection, sat around the gray windows, puffing clouds of smoke and staring evenly at the young man: Alfred F. Jones. Fine, powdery snow covered his shoulders and stuck to his eyelashes. His eyes were blue, as they guessed, and from the shy way he spoke and uncertainty of his actions, he really was just a lost puppy. The guards instantly either hated him or felt brief sympathy.

Alfred went to his cell, nearly knocking his head on the door as he towered over six feet. He bent down and shuffled in, sitting quietly on the flat bed. He stared at the wall, his eyes dulling by the moment. He listened to the instructions belted at him by the warden. He nodded when he had to, he mumbled "sir" when he had to, and he even offered the warden a smile. The warden turned stiffly towards the other guards, collecting the files.

"What a strange man, what's he in for?" Billy, the most senior of the guards, inquired in a casual way that barley hid his curiosity.

The warden, the lines on his face tightening, sighed. "Murder of two entire families," he stated, and turned away. His back was beginning to arch forwards and his steps grew smaller and smaller, until soon they would be a crawl. The other guards realized this. The warden slipped behind the heavy metal doors to take care of paperwork. They could see him through the barred window, cloaked in golden lamplight and occasionally casting his eyes towards the narrow hallway.

There were no fights in this building, unless it was between the guards. Each prisoner was locked tightly behind his bars in a single cell. Each prisoner kept to himself because he knew his death was coming close. Sometimes a woman was sentenced to the chair, but usually she went elsewhere. A rare occasion came and went with a woman named Sarah Dubbing who sat down on her throne, still screaming and throwing fists, just as Alfred stood up in court and admitted his guilt.

Now there was only Alfred, still staring at his shadows, and the howling wind outside.

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><p><em>I do not own Hetalia.<em>

_Continue...? _


	2. Chapter 2

_If you ever go down Trinidad_

_They may you feel so very glad! _

The radio leaked the harmonized girls' vocals, seeing the catchy song. Alfred looked away from the chipped wall and peered through the bars. He saw before him an empty cell. His blue eyes followed the row of bars towards the end of the hall. One of the officers, the only one who worked that evening following Christmas, was listening to his radio. He hummed tunelessly and tapped his pencil, staring at the mountain of papers before him.

Alfred stood slowly, moving towards the bars. He curled his fingers around the cold rungs and pressed his face against them. He squinted. He had lost his spectacles the previous week. The prison hadn't bothered giving him a new pair. Alfred licked his lips, his stomach grumbling. The weak gruel they fed him was hardly enough. Sometimes the stale bread was nice, though.

The officer raised his head, nearly jumping to the ceiling when he saw Alfred's earnest face peering down the dim hall at him. The howling winter wind scratched at the walls. He stared at Alfred, composing his "I hate life and everything to do with it" officer's look, but could only manage a look for false cheer. The holidays still clung stubbornly to his mood. He missed his children. He calmly set his pencil down. No one else was there. The warden was home with his wife. It wouldn't hurt to say a word or two to Alfred.

"Hello."

Alfred did not answer for nearly a full moment. At the end of the painful interim he muttered: "Do you think it's real cold outside?" He had a slow way of talking, laid back, most likely southern.

"Most likely," the officer, Officer Warren, said with a nod.

"Think I'll ever be outside in that cold again?"

"I don't know, son, maybe you'll get lucky and be free."

"I don't think so." Alfred shook his head slowly, his bangs shaking. He had brushed most of his hair forwards, so it hung just short of his brows. He touched it often, even though he didn't have a mirror. He couldn't purchase hair products, either, he wasn't like the prisoners up the hill who were doing only a certain amount of time. He was here to fry.

Warren had seen dozens of men come and go that way, plus the one woman. He had seen a kid just barely eighteen who went nuts and pulled a gun on his mother. He had seen an old man whose past caught up with him. He had seen men who didn't care what they did and were hell right up until the end. And all the while he didn't bat an eye. His emotions he left at home. Now it seems that he had brought some along. Or maybe it was the holiday spirit. He gazed at Alfred, trying to feel detached.

He was tempted to ask what a nice young man like him was doing there, but he knew the past well and he didn't bother. He wasn't that kind of guard to begin with. He looked back down at his papers, fiddling with his paper.

"You think I'll ever feel the rain again?"

Warren opened Alfred's file and looked at the date of execution. It was mid-May. By then rain should have fallen.

"If you prove to be a good prisoner we'll let you out in the spring rain if there is some." Warren explained.

He stopped suddenly, before adding a little anecdote to his statement. What was he doing? Fraternizing with the prison will not do. When his cohorts hear about this they'll chastise him. He doubted he would get in trouble, since he was not exchanged plans or anything of that nature. Warren still shouldn't get attached to Alfred. If he did, it'd be like loving the warm days between autumn and summer. They'll evaporate soon enough. Except in this case there was no next year to look forwards to.

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><p><em>I do not own "Rum and Coca Cola" by the Andrews Sisters. <em>

_To the person who told me not to continue: if you are reading this then you certainly are confused._


	3. Chapter 3

An influx of prisoners was due to arrive, abolishing the momentary quiet. The Warden considered this and thought nothing of it. What could he do? Half of earth was turned to get these men sentenced to execution. He had a job to do. There was no arguing with that.

The first of the prisoners took the cell right across from Alfred. At first he seemed to be no trouble, shuffling in his issued uniform and trudging through the halls. His steps echoed. Alfred heard the steps and edged to the end of his bed, peering down the awfully long hallway. A shadow stretched towards him. It shook and rattled occasionally as the man made his way, cuffed by Billy.

When he reached his cell, he was another story altogether. He struggled against the metal clutching his wrist, spitting insults and howling in Italian. His dark, curled hair was casting strange, laced shadows on the hard tile. Alfred clutched the bars of his cell, staring wide-eyed at the newcomer.

"You fucking bastard I'll rip your damn ears off and drown you in the toilet!" The man shrieked, kicking and spitting like a caged lion.

Billy barely batted an eye. He led the new man, Lovino Vargas head of a Mafia Family, into the cell and nodded to the men around him. The ambled off, finding more cufflinks and chaining the man to the floor.

At that point Lovino quieted down, barely. He sat immobile on the bed, his palms flat against the thin sheets. He stared at a wall. He did not speak again until after he and Alfred were issued dinner.

He raised his head and quietly mumbled: "Ah, wait until my Grandfather hears of this!"

Officer Warren was intrigued, despite Billy's cold glare. He walked past Lovino's cell, standing in the middle of the hallway. It was likely the young man would throw his hands out in an attempt to strange him.

Lovino remained seated. He passed his tongue over his dry lips. Now, Alfred could see him better. He had an angular face and tanned skin, heavily Italian. His voice was accented, but his English understandable. In the prison clothes he looked scrawny. But he must have looked fetching and commanding in a tuxedo.

"What will your grandfather do?" Officer Warren ventured, mostly out of boredom. But a part of him was just as intrigued as Alfred behind him.

Alfred's fingers curled over the bars, like spiders creeping up a pole.

"Will he come and punish us like most Mafia men do?" Billy sneered, having had quite enough of this.

"Oh, he's dead." Lovino said, then repeated himself in Italian. "Looonggg dead."

Billy scoffed, turning away. He felt idiotic for having spoken with an obviously catatonic, dangerous convict. Officer Warren continued despite even the Warden's wary hissing at him to stop.

"Then what will he do when he hears of this?"

"Think of it!" Lovino cried out, "You'll go up to St. Peter's and grandfather will be there. '_Scandali!_ They locked up my grandson! Send them straight to the burning depths of Hell! Unlike you _idioti_ I am not afraid of death. There are many up there," Lovino pointed a scarred forefinger upwards, "And they await me with open arms! And you constantly fear death, putting those who could easily relinquish you into these cells and then into the big frying pan."

"He's delusional." Billy said, grabbing Officer Warren by the arm gruffly and pulling him away. He ran a hand through his thinning hair in exasperation. "Just ignore him."

Officer Warren looked behind him, a final, strangled look. Lovino was not paying attention. He was staring at Alfred, and his eyes were wide with what looked like fear.


End file.
